


red ribbons

by CareyElizabeth



Series: two's company [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, Christmas, F/F, I Don't Even Know, just went to see the nutcracker and it gave me feelings™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 21:55:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8817661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CareyElizabeth/pseuds/CareyElizabeth
Summary: Five years before black ribbons, rising star ballerina Lexa Woods is having trouble buying into the Christmas spirit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This is NOT a replacement for black ribbons which should have a new chapter shortly, but I just had a sudden urge to write a Christmas chapter so here it is. I wrote it VERY quickly and it's pretty much unedited so let me know if there are any mistakes! Hope you all have a wonderful holiday season and a happy new year.
> 
> Tumblr is @southsouthwest if you have any questions :)

 

 

**November 1. Forty-two days before debut.**

 

‘No.’

‘It’s a rite of passage, Lexa. I’ve explained this before.’

‘I heard you.’

‘It’s an honor.’

‘I can happily do without.’

‘Anyone would think we were sacrificing you to the gods in exchange for ticket sales and the swift return of spring. It’s the Sugarplum Fairy. Get over it.’

‘No.’

‘It’s every ballerina’s dream.’

‘I’m not every ballerina.’

‘One might say you’re a cocky little shit.’ 

‘I don’t mean like that. I just really don’t want to do it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Lexa.’

‘Ever heard of the unstoppable force and the immovable object?’

‘I have,’ sighed Anya. ‘And I’m beginning to think I may have trained you too well.’

The first day of _Nutcracker_ rehearsals was always something of a struggle. The dancers had had two weeks off after fall season ended, to spend pursuing other projects, guesting with other companies, or - in extreme cases - going on vacation, and it took a while to get back up to speed. At seventeen, it would be Lexa’s third Christmas as a member of the company, but she was already mentally exploring alternative careers in case her legs fell off. The exhausting forty-odd performances of _The Nutcracker_ were the company’s biggest money-spinner, and the Sugarplum Fairy the show’s biggest star.

‘It’s the cruel, unreasonable price you pay for being promoted,’ persisted the older dancer. ‘You’re a soloist now, so you get nights off, and in return you’re  _ forced  _ to dance the lead role. The best role. The role that everyone wants.’

‘ _ I  _ don’t want it.’

‘You love lead roles.’

‘Not this one.’

Anya humphed and subsided into her chair.  _ Plotting _ , guessed Lexa gloomily, putting down her coffee and doing her best to look like she was taking a nap. She was well aware that she’d end up giving in - Indra’s decisions were flexible only in the sense that she wouldn’t put anyone onstage if they were injured, or dead - but she didn’t particularly want to explain her reaction to seeing the cast list.

Anya had other ideas. ‘You must have been in  _ The Nutcracker  _ a hundred times.’

‘Drop it, Anya.’

‘So it’s clearly not the ballet itself that’s the problem.’

‘This coffee tastes weird. Does your coffee taste weird?’

‘And everyone learns the steps at the school, so it’s not like you don’t know the role.’

‘Did you put sugar in this?’

‘And it can’t be the partnering, because you’ve got Lincoln again.’

‘Someone should really remind the dancers’ reps about getting those new drinks machines.’

‘It must be stage fright.’

‘I do  _ not  _ have stage fright.’

‘Ha.’ Anya sat forward intently. ‘Knew that one would get you. So if it’s not stage fright, what is it?’

‘No-’

‘If you say ‘nothing’ I’m taking your Christmas legwarmers hostage.’

‘Fine,’ growled Lexa. ‘The Sugarplum Fairy has to be charming and sweet and happy, and I’m not. Not at Christmas.’

It was unusually quiet in the break room. The two of them had somehow managed to snatch ten minutes in between rehearsals, and no one else was about except a production assistant typing rhythmically in the office across the hall. Lexa stared determinedly into her perfectly acceptable cup of coffee, sensing without seeing Anya’s sympathetic gaze. Her throat tightened. ‘Don’t look at me like that. This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.’

‘Lex, this is what I’m here for.’

‘You know it only makes it worse if you’re all... _ nice  _ to me.’

‘I’m hardly going to be a bitch when you’ve just told me you get sad at Christmas because you miss your dad.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Sorry. My mistake. Obviously you just object to the gross commercialization, or you’re scared of reindeer.’ Anya kicked her gently. ‘It’s okay to be sad. You know that.’

‘Do we have to talk about this now?’

‘Luckily for you, I have to run, but this isn’t over.’ The older girl drained the last of her drink and shouldered her shoe-bag. ‘You’re definitely charming. You  _ can  _ be sweet. And I assure you we’re going to work on the happy.’

 

***

 

**Lexa Woods (16:12):** Casting for nutcracker is up

**Lexa Woods (16:14):** I got the sugarplum fairy this year

**Costia Summers (16:15):** that's the lead right?

**Costia Summers (16:15):** amazing, I'm so proud of you :)

**Costia Summers (16:17):** does that mean you'll be even busier?

**Lexa Woods (16:18):** A bit

**Lexa Woods (16:22):** I'm really sorry, nutcracker season is always crazy

**Costia Summers (16:25):** it's okay

**Costia Summers (16:27):** i'm starting on set next week anyway

**Costia Summers (16:29):** we can do a late xmas in january :)

**Lexa Woods (16:29):** :)

**Lexa Woods (16:30):** I miss you

**Costia Summers (16:33):** I miss you too

 

***

 

_ ‘It  _ sucks _.’ _

_ ‘It does.’ _

_ ‘It’s totally unfair.’ _

_ ‘Lex, they wouldn’t have pulled us out if they weren’t sure it’d make our injuries worse.’ _

_ ‘It’s a  _ sprain.’  _ Lexa scowled. ‘A tiny little sprain. I’ve danced on worse.’ _

_ ‘Well, you probably shouldn’t have.’ _

_ ‘I know.’ She flopped back onto the bed with all the dejection a twelve-year-old could muster. ‘I just…’ _

_ She trailed off, and Lincoln said nothing. They’d met barely two months before, but he had a good instinct for when not to ask. She hadn’t had enough time to learn how to explain how she felt, let alone how to grit her teeth and keep going when the grief stuck in her throat like the catch of cold air. She was still at the stage of needing space, silence, safety.  _

_ ‘It was something to look forward to.’ _

_ It was an effort to get the words out, and she lay there twisting her hands, trying to get ahold of the disappointment. It was true that being at the school had kept her busy - before, in the foster homes, she’d done too little and thought too much - but it had been dancing in  _ The Nutcracker  _ that had given her a reason to be excited. The other kids chattered about Christmas and seeing their families again; Lexa tuned it out and visualized her steps for the hundredth time. And now there would be no dancing, nothing to distract her, and no Christmas plans. _

_ It was a while before she realized that Lincoln still hadn’t replied. ‘You’d better not be asleep. We have class in...pretty much now.’ _

_ ‘We’re not allowed to go to class.’ _

_ ‘We’re allowed to  _ go _ , we’re just not supposed to dance.’ _

_ ‘What’s the point of going to a dance class if you’re not allowed to dance?’ _

_ ‘You learn by watching, idiot.’ Lexa swung her legs down slowly and hesitated, smoothing her hands over her practice skirt, hoping he hadn’t been laughing at her. ‘What were you thinking about?’ _

_ ‘Nothing. Just...if we can’t perform, we could still go and watch.’ _

_ ‘They won’t let us. We’re meant to be resting as much as possible.’ _

_ ‘We could sneak out.’ _

_ ‘How?’ _

_ ‘Nyko’s done it.’ Lincoln could make friends with anyone, even the older kids who usually ignored the junior levels. ‘He says it’s easy. We could sneak out and back in without anyone knowing.’ _

_ ‘We shouldn’t.’ Lexa knew, logically, that the school would never just throw her out - they’d had so much legal drama over guardianships and duties of care that they were clearly in it for the long haul - but she couldn’t stop herself worrying. On the other hand, she already knew Lincoln would follow her lead, and it wouldn’t be fair on him if she lost her nerve, so... _

_ Nyko’s method turned out to involve a lot of luck and a reckless disregard for personal safety, so Lexa made some slight alterations. Instead of the leap of faith onto the theater fire escape, the rope climb down from the technicians’ balcony and the hopeful assumption that no one would be manning the main backstage door, she suggested picking a lock to get out of the school and ingeniously entering the auditorium through the front entrance. ‘Everyone who knows us will be busy.’  _

_ Lincoln looked at her admiringly. ‘Cunning.’ _

_ ‘I prefer strategic.’ _

_ ‘Devious.’ _

_ ‘It's just tactics.’ _

_ Her dad had been the one to teach her about lock-picking and the elementary rules of war, but she resolutely ignored this in favour of analysing a PDF of the theater floorplan for potential escape routes.  _

_ Everything went beautifully. The lock was dealt with in record time, no one batted an eyelid at them among the crowds of families and school groups in the foyer, and it was a simple matter to take the back stairs up to the highest circle of seats and find an unoccupied corner. It was shadowy and on the shabby side, but the view - the red velvet, the gilded wood, the hundreds of shimmering lamps - was always transporting.  _

_ Once the performance started, Lexa stopped being aware of the impending cramp in her legs or the way Lincoln's elbow was jammed into her side. Her automatic response was to analyse, noting the details she wanted to borrow for her own dancing, but underneath it all was a longing almost painful in its intensity. She  _ belonged  _ down there. She gazed transfixed at the shifting formations and spellbinding steps, the other ballet students, the company dancers; and then there was the Sugarplum Fairy, graceful, commanding, effortless.  _

That will be me.  _ It was half a promise, half a certainty. _

_ But then the familiar dragging weight sank down on her, the blank misery of knowing that it didn’t matter; she would never make her father proud again, and there was no one left who had known her first as Lexa the girl and not Lexa the dancer. She knew that she’d been born to stand on that stage, that it was a part of her as innate and inescapable as the lines on her palm or the beat of her blood, but she hadn’t expected to lose her other self along the way. _

_ The tears were silenced by the burn in her throat, but Lincoln must have seen the tracks glistening on her cheeks. ‘You’re crying.’ _

_ ‘I’m not.’ _

_ She couldn’t stop watching, mesmerised by the tilt of the ballerina’s head and the picture-perfect line of her arabesque, aching at the warmth of her smile and the joy that filled every movement from the drape of the fingers to the arch of her feet. Lexa couldn’t imagine ever feeling that  _ complete  _ again, but she couldn’t help drinking it in, memorizing the steps, her hands unconsciously echoing what she saw on the stage. It felt completely right for her body and completely out of reach for her heart. _

_ Lincoln looked at her in concern as the Sugarplum Fairy’s dance ended and the ballerina came to the front of the stage to receive the applause. ‘Are you okay?’ _

_ Lexa hugged her knees and nodded. ‘Let’s go again tomorrow.’ _

 

***

 

**November 10. Thirty-two days before debut**

 

‘What is it about this damn part?’

Anya cracked an eye open. ‘Let’s see. Fond childhood memories. Spreading love and joy. Spirit of Christmas. Etcetera.’

‘It’s our  _ day off _ .’

‘I am aware.’

Lexa, never a fan of draping herself around looking sulky, had not responded well to the news that a fashion magazine had discovered that she was debuting Sugarplum and was claiming her for an emergency photoshoot. Since she was technically a minor, Anya had been allowed to come along as responsible adult, and the older dancer was chaperoning hard from the comfort of a folding chair while Lexa worked out how to deploy her enormous couture skirt. 

‘If I ever find out who told them...’ Lexa swished a figure-of-eight through the air with a pointless flap of gown. ‘Imagine dancing in this. I swear to god, fashion designers think clothes are fully functional as long as they can travel in a straight line. What if I have to bend at the waist? Or punch someone?’

‘When was the last time you had to punch someone in the course of a ballet?’

‘It’s a reflection of my mood.’

‘Just think of this as your Christmas present to Titus.’

‘Funnily enough, marketing directors who force me to wear ridiculous clothes and prance around freezing warehouses don’t usually feature on my Christmas list.’

‘It’s a very nice warehouse.’

‘That’s easy to say when you’re wearing a coat.’

‘Look, they’ve even put up a tree. The first of the season. You should be honored.’

Lexa could only scowl at the tree as she was led away to begin shooting, but she remembered it before she went to bed, when she saw the fairy lights reflected in her mirror. She was used to certain things - certain times of year - being hollow for her, but seeing her first Christmas tree was usually one of those moments when the emptiness grew teeth. It had always had the same stab as when she caught sight of her dad’s dog tags at the back of her drawer, or heard one of the songs he played while he cooked, or smelled someone brewing the kind of coffee that was too black for normal human consumption. It had hurt, even before she dug her nails into her palms or bit her tongue til it bled to keep herself together. But this time she hadn’t thought of him at all, and that was infinitely, terribly worse.

She was more methodical with her grief than she had been at twelve. Carefully, she put down the hairbrush, carefully she braced her folded arms on the table and stared down into her lap, carefully she fought through the harsh, tearless breaths that were the only way to force air into her paralyzed ribcage. It was a process, quiet and unobtrusive and familiar, and usually no one had to know. 

‘What’s up?’ It was Anya, framed in the open door. 

Lexa said nothing, and for once the older girl didn’t insist. Instead Lexa felt a soothing hand on her scalp and the gentle drag of the brush through her hair, the kind of comfort they both worked best with.

‘You got this,’ murmured Anya, when Lexa finally coughed and straightened up. ‘However long it takes.’

_ Which would be great,  _ thought Lexa drearily as she accepted a hug, _ if that was still the problem. _

 

***

 

**November 11. Thirty-one days before debut**

 

As the newest of the company’s eight Sugarplum Fairies, Lexa managed to get through the first couple of weeks of rehearsals by standing at the back and just looking like she was concentrating hard. That stopped being feasible when Indra began to coach each couple individually. The ballet-master’s undivided attention did not make it easier to manufacture joy and charm, and Lexa considered it a victory to maintain a truly terrible false smile. 

The complete lack of Christmas spirit could never have gone unnoticed, but Indra toned down her usual bluntness. ‘You’re very good  _ together _ , as usual. Lincoln, don’t flap on the cabrioles, and you’re a hair behind the music in the jump sequence. Fixable. Lexa…’ Indra gazed at her pensively for a moment. ‘The steps are fine, but you freeze up once you’re on your own. It needs to be soft, and at the moment it's a little cold. Fine when you're playing Snowflake, but less so for Sugarplum.’

Lexa looked for an indication as to whether Indra was aware she’d just made a joke. It appeared not. ‘I’ll work on it.’

‘Good.’ The shorter woman squeezed the dancer’s shoulder as she turned to leave. It was one of those occasional reminders that Indra did still have normal human feelings such as empathy. ‘You’ll get it. I know this role is hard for you.’

Lexa swallowed but didn't look away. ‘It’ll be fine.’

The two of them did a quick warm-down after Indra had gone, and Lincoln dug in his bag as they sat down to stretch out. ‘If you tell me what’s bothering you, I’ll give you a mince pie.’

‘It’s mid-November. The mere fact that you can buy mince pies is obscene.’

‘I’m not asking you to buy them, I’m asking you to eat them.’ Lincoln waggled a mince pie temptingly under Lexa’s nose. ‘What’s up? You were completely zoned out in class this morning as well.’

‘Maybe I’m hungover.’

‘Given that Indra is very much onto you, I’m going to invite you to reconsider that explanation.’

‘I’m definitely not hungover.’

‘Just take the pie,’ said Lincoln kindly. ‘We need to feed ourselves up if we’re going to make it to January. Although you’re not even doing every performance, so on second thoughts maybe I should have it back.’

Lexa rolled her eyes and took the pie. ‘Anya was calculating the other day how many  _ Nutcrackers  _ we'll dance over our careers.’

‘And?’

‘Upwards of five hundred each.’

‘Christ.’ Lincoln munched thoughtfully. ‘It’s lucky it’s one of the better ballets.’

‘Mmmm.’

‘Or not.’ Lexa didn’t reply, but Lincoln wasn't being put off this time. ‘Lex, usually I wouldn't push, but...we’re partners. If you have a problem, I need to know.’

The ballerina sighed and stretched over to hug her toes. ‘Christmas. Dad. The usual.’

‘I know it doesn’t get any easier.’

‘It does. It does get easier. That’s the problem.’ Lexa tightened her grip. ‘I have all these memories of Christmas with him, but they’re not automatic any more. I used to miss him everywhere I looked, and now I...don’t. Sometimes I go for days without thinking about him.’ She looked over at Lincoln and shrugged helplessly. ‘The Sugarplum Fairy is pretty much the fucking embodiment of joy, but I don’t know if I  _ can  _ enjoy dancing it, and I can’t fake it. You saw what happened when I tried.’

‘Not your finest work.’ Lincoln hesitated. ‘From everything you've told me about your dad...he would so badly want you to enjoy this. Not just Sugarplum, but all of it. You’re exactly how he would have wanted you to turn out.’

Lexa snorted. ‘Dad wouldn't have known a Sugarplum Fairy if one punched him on the nose.’

‘Maybe not, but he would never have wanted you to feel guilty about living the life you were meant to have.’ Lincoln cleared his throat. ‘I know just saying it doesn't really help, but. It’s true.’

‘Yeah.’

‘It  _ is _ .’

‘I know.’

 

***

 

**November 15. Twenty-seven days before debut**

 

‘Before you go,’ called Indra at the end of company class, ‘I have been instructed to say that, against my better judgement, the company will be doing a Secret Santa exchange again this year. Anya, is there something you’d like to share with the group?’

Anya opened her eyes innocently, pretending she hadn’t just snorted loudly enough to be heard from the other side of the studio. ‘Since you ask, I just fail to see the point of getting gifts without knowing who they’re from.’

‘Thank you for your insight. Valuable as always. Now, needless to say, we do not want a repeat of last time -’

‘It was a joke,’ muttered Jasper Jordan from the back row. ‘How was I supposed to know he’d open it in a public place? In front of his mother?’

‘- so I am laying down some ground rules. Nothing that may cause injury during season. I stress in particular that stilt- or pogo-stick-related excuses will not be accepted this year. Nothing which may cause ill-will within the company. And  _ nothing  _ -’ a glare at Jasper ‘- which might attract the attention of sniffer dogs, security personnel or sexual harassment lawyers.’ 

‘None of that actually  _ happened _ ,’ countered Jasper sulkily. Lexa and Murphy, for once in complete accord, elbowed him simultaneously in the ribs.

Indra nodded wearily. ‘Announcement over. Disperse. Pick a slip out of the appalling well of disease by the door as you go.’

The dancers filed out, pausing to rummage in the company’s heirloom Santa hat, which had originally been the traditional red but had since faded to a repellent color somewhere between orange and brown. Lexa unfolded her paper, blinked disbelievingly at the block-capitalled  _ Anya Hunter _ , and made a mental note to ask around in case the older dancer had finally managed to replace all the slips with her own name. 

Anya herself was visibly unimpressed with the whole thing. ‘This is ridiculous. Why should we be subjected to compulsory and anonymous gift-giving? If I was a Republican I’d definitely abstain on big-government grounds.’

‘You say that every year,’ replied Lexa reasonably, ‘and we both know that it's really because you’re pathologically unable to accept not knowing things.’

‘It is not.’ Anya rummaged casually in her shoe-bag for a precisely-judged length of time before she spoke again. ‘Who did you get, then?’

‘I’m not doing this.’ 

‘Why not? It's just a question.’

‘It’s not a question, it's a plea.’

‘Natural curiosity.’

‘A cry for help.’

‘I’m fine with ignorance, conceptually. It’s just  _ pointless _ .’ 

‘We’ll see.’ Lexa smiled sweetly and ostentatiously tucked her slip of paper into her hairpin bag. ‘I give you a week before you break.’

 

***

 

**November 18. Twenty-four days before debut.**

 

‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la, la la la la.’

‘Still too early.’

‘Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la.’

‘There’s an entire month set aside for this nonsense.’

‘Don we now our gay apparel - see, that could literally have been written about us and our  _ Nutcracker  _ costumes.’

‘Lincoln.’

‘Fa la la, la la la, la la la.’

‘I will empty this mixing bowl over your head.’

Lincoln grinned. Lexa flicked flour at him. Anya tutted severely as she passed. ‘Setting a very bad example to the youth, I see.’

‘You have egg on your face,’ pointed out Lexa blandly. ‘Literal egg. On your literal face. And don’t think I didn't see you eating those mixed nuts.’ 

‘Cake-making is war, Lexa. You know that. If you don’t end up wearing the ingredients like warpaint, you haven’t made enough effort.’ Anya leaned over and added an extra glug of otherwise strictly-regulated brandy into their bowls. ‘Purely medicinal, of course. I hear it’s extremely good for muscle recovery.’ 

If there was one tradition Lexa had to admit she looked forward to, it was the last Friday before Thanksgiving, when the company dancers descended on the kitchens of their old boarding houses to make Christmas cakes with the ballet students. It was the first Christmas tradition she’d had that didn't involve her dad, and in her first year she'd been in no state to enjoy it. Anya had rescued her, mixing up the cake, helping with the icing, turning yet another thing she’d been dreading into part of her new life. 

There were always a couple of kids trying to hide homesickness. Lexa knew the signs, the drooping shoulders and downcast eyes, and she’d developed a strategy of forcing herself to get involved before she remembered how much she hated talking about herself, her life, her feelings, or generally anything which would have made her remotely equipped for the role of comforter-in-chief.

Before she could change her mind, she grabbed her bowl and a mixing spoon and wandered over casually to stand beside a lanky, tow-headed kid of eight or nine, who had been measuring flour with a forlorn expression. ‘You okay?’

There was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes before he squared his shoulders and nodded. ‘Sure. I’m fine.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Aden.’

‘Aden, my first Christmas here I was so miserable I couldn’t even make the cake.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

Aden made some polite acknowledgement sound and re-measured the flour. Lexa waited, familiar with all the cake-related forms of stalling and plucking up courage, but still almost missed whatever he finally mumbled into the batter. ‘Didn’t catch that.’

He straightened his back like a soldier on parade and repeated himself carefully. ‘Were you homesick too?’

‘Sort of. I missed my dad, and I was sad I wouldn’t be with him for Christmas.’

‘What happened?’

‘He died.’

‘Oh.’ He was disconcerted but not embarrassed, which made a change. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Not really.’

Lexa bit back a smile. ‘No, not really. But it gets easier. And you get better at asking for help when you need it.’ 

‘Did someone help you?’

She pointed out Anya, who had just noticed Jasper eyeing up the bottle of brandy and was silently daring him to do something about it. ‘That girl over there made the cake for me.’

‘The one who looks like she’s going to throw the bowl at someone?’

‘Yes. Ignore that, it’s just her resting face.’

Aden nodded, his gaze steady and serious. ‘And that helped?’

‘More than she knew.’ Lexa didn’t consider herself sentimental, but she’d kept the red satin ribbon they’d fastened around the finished cake. It had anchored her in a new life she hadn’t been sure she belonged in. ‘It wasn’t just that I was lonely, it was more...I needed to get used to the idea that from now on I’d have to do things on my own, you know? Instead of with my dad. And making the cake was the start of that.’

‘But you weren’t on your own. That girl helped you. And she must have really liked you to help you, cause she just hit that guy with a rolling pin.’

‘She’s not normally like that,’ lied Lexa weakly. He had a point, though; she couldn’t honestly say that she’d ever been  _ alone  _ since she came to the school. She’d had bad days, she’d struggled and felt the weight of absence, but she’d never had to get through it by herself. A more optimistic thinker than Lexa might even have seen her first Christmas at the school not as her first without her dad, but as a new start with new people. 

She poked Aden gently with the handle of her wooden spoon. ‘You’re too smart for your own good.’

‘My mom says I think too much.’

‘That makes two of us.’

 

***

 

‘Remind me who your Secret Santa is?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t be a smartass. I know you know.’

‘If you think you know that I know, and you think that I know that you think that you know that I know, it should be perfectly obvious why I’m pretending not to know what you think you know I know.’

‘Oh, forget it.’

 

***

 

**November 25. Seventeen days before debut.**

 

‘Goodnight, Indra.’

‘Hm?’ The ballet-master looked up absently from a desk covered in photos. ‘Lexa. Why are you still here?’

‘Anya went to the choreography masterclass and I had an essay to finish.’ Lexa leant against the doorframe. ‘What are you doing?’

‘This? Just one of the many things one must do to appease Titus.’ Indra waved her into the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘It’s for the  _ Nutcracker  _ programme. “Christmas at the company” or some such rubbish. Behind the scenes photographs through the years.’

‘These are amazing.’ On the top of one of the piles was a publicity still, surely from the 1980s, of a very young Indra and Kane in matching reindeer jumpers, neon leggings and legwarmers studded with fairy lights. ‘Oh, please. This is a must.’

‘That is the discard pile.’

‘I object.’

‘Overruled.’

‘I’ll do anything. First-born child? It’s yours.’

‘Save the drama for the stage. Talking of which…’ Indra picked up the pile and tapped it precisely on the desk four times, getting all the corners together. ‘Are you happy, Lexa?’

‘Yes, of course.’ It was a completely automatic response, but this time it was - mostly - true. She’d done a good day of rehearsals, she’d just written a damn good essay, and she was going to graduate high school on time while simultaneously holding down the full-time job she’d dreamed about since she was eight. If it hadn’t been for the tiny, niggling prospect of being the least magical Sugarplum Fairy ever to grace the stage…

The ballet-master read her mind. ‘You don’t like the new role.’

‘It’s not that I don’t  _ like  _ it.’

‘Then what is it?’

Lexa didn't answer, searching for an explanation that Indra wouldn't mistake for stage-fright or weakness. Indra tried to prompt her. ‘I know debuts are nerve-racking, but that's why we always schedule them for Monday nights. It’s always the quietest evening. It might not even be sold out.’

‘It's not that either.’ The ballerina ran a hand through her hair and forced herself to meet her teacher’s eyes. ‘I don’t think I’m right for it.’

‘You’re exactly right for it,’ replied Indra, with a flat conviction that surprised Lexa, ‘but tell me why you don’t think so.’

Lexa crossed and uncrossed her legs restlessly. ‘It’s the character, like you said in rehearsals. Buying into the joy of it. And if I can’t, it’ll ruin the whole thing.’

‘Is that all?’

‘It sounds fairly crucial to me.’ 

Indra shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I think you’re simply mistaken. It certainly isn’t the case that you  _ can’t _ .’

‘You have no idea if I can or not.’

‘Nor do you.’ The ballet-master leant forward and clasped her hands under her chin. ‘But I have been doing this a long time, and I think you’ll surprise yourself when it comes down to it. You may not have experience to draw on, but your natural talent is unusual, and you need to learn to trust it. You need to believe that it won’t let you down.’

‘Talent can make my feet do the right thing. It can’t magically make me  _ feel _ differently.’

‘I think dancing this role  _ will _ make you feel differently. Regardless of how you feel about it now, it is part of your path. Your destiny. And that matters.’

‘Maybe,’ sighed Lexa, ‘but it’s  _ Christmas _ . It should be easy.’

‘“Christmas” is not a feeling.’ Indra picked up a second pile of photos and began to leaf through them briskly; she’d said all she needed to say. ‘What you really mean is joy. Warmth. Self-respect. You have every right to those, and the season is entirely irrelevant.’

The ballerina sat silent for a while, tracing snowflake patterns into her thigh, listening to the slide of paper and the occasional decisive snick as Indra picked out a particular picture. There were shots taken from the wings of  _ Nutcrackers  _ mid-performance, of dancers warming up at the barre in full make-up and grimy sweats, Sugarplum Fairies sewing shoes in their dressing rooms, a few of dancers celebrating while they were off the clock. ‘Is that me?’ 

The photo turned out to be her and Anya bent over a mixing bowl at her first school cake-making. Lexa vividly remembered the dusting of cinnamon and orange zest on the countertop and the blue snowflake-patterned apron she’d been wearing. Anya had a smear of batter along her cheekbone, Lexa had flour in her hair, but they were both smiling. 

‘Can I keep this?’

‘Take it,’ said Indra idly, comparing two shots of Kane trying to look profound and artistic and as though he hadn’t noticed the camera approaching his face. ‘Go home and get some rest. And think about what I said.’

‘I will.’

‘I mean it, Lexa.’

‘So do I.’

 

***

 

‘You do understand the concept of a secret Santa, don’t you? The clue is literally in the name.’

‘And there was I thinking it was sponsored by the well known deodorant brand.’

 

***

 

**December 3. Nine days before debut.**

 

Opening night was predictably mediocre. It was a relief to finally get to performing after a month of rehearsals, but it always took a couple of shows for everyone to get into the routine. Cues were missed, props were dropped, costume changes went wrong, lighting changes didn’t happen at all, but it barely mattered. Dancing the lead Snowflake meant that Lexa didn’t enter til the second act, so she spent ten minutes tucked into a corner at the back of the theater before she warmed up. Five years before, she and Lincoln had been completely fixated on the performance; now, she found herself looking at the audience. She noticed the children, small enough to sit on their parents’ laps, eyes wide at the sight of their first ballet. The first-time theater-goers, who started off leafing through their programmes to check what was going on before they got lost in the music and the atmosphere. The older couple who sat arm in arm, heads inclined towards each other, smiling and pointing at the festive scenery. 

They were loving it, and Lexa found herself smiling too just watching them. It wasn’t  _ complicated _ when she was safe in the confines of the theater, cut off from the outside world. For a while, at least, it wasn’t bound up with the longing for Christmases she’d never have again and the guilt of starting to accept the new way of things. For a while, just like Indra had said, she felt the magic.

She felt cautiously, momentarily hopeful.

 

***

 

‘You might as well tell me who your secret Santa is. I already saw the slip when you pulled it out of the hat.’

‘If you’d already seen the slip you wouldn’t need me to tell you what it said.’

‘Shut up.’

 

***

 

**December 11. One day before debut.**

 

‘What fresh hell is this.’

Anya, visible only as an ominous silhouette between the now-open curtains, put her hands on her hips. ‘Firstly, I resent your tone. Secondly, I am offended by your suspicion, which I’m sure I have never done anything to deserve. Thirdly, it’ll be fun. Fourthly, you’ll thank me later.’

‘ _ What  _ will be fun?’

Anya sat on the bed deliberately close to Lexa’s head. Lexa groaned and rolled over. ‘I know you want to spend the day moping about the show tomorrow, but I’ve decided it would be more productive to get out and enjoy yourself. We’ll meet Lincoln and take in the Christmas lights, and this evening we're going to Carols by Candlelight at the cathedral.’

‘Why?’

‘Mrs Cabrera’s grandson is in the choir, and since she’s our landlady I thought it would be wise to say yes when she  _ very kindly  _ invited us.’

‘You couldn’t have said we were - and this is just a suggestion -  _ working _ ? Like every other night this month?’

‘I’d already told her how much we were looking forward to having a night off.’

‘Anyaaaaa. I was going to go to bed early.’

‘No, you weren’t, you were going to lie awake for hours agonizing about everything that could possibly go wrong. A peaceful hour listening to carols can’t hurt. And you love candles.’

‘I love  _ my  _ candles.’

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing.’

Anya won, but  _ only _ , as Lexa made extremely clear on the walk to the subway, because they had to be at the theater anyway for 10.30 company class. The air was so cold that it was hard to breathe. The two of them packed extra sweaters and burrowed deep into fleece-lined chunky-knit scarves, gloved hands stuffed into pockets, tips of noses visible and frozen. Anya hated the cold and grumbled about the ordeal of de-layering and re-layering at either end of the stifling subway. ‘Why can’t everything just be a single temperature?’

‘Like the moon. Or California.’

‘If it means I don’t have to wear three cardigans, yes.’

Lexa felt the nerves twist as they got to the theater, but company class did its usual, comforting, familiar job of whiting everything out. She’d already learned the importance of taking refuge in the little things, the predictable things, the things that could have been mindless except that that would have given her too much time to overthink.  _ Fondu front, plié, carry  _ _ à la seconde...ronde de jambe, ronde de jambe, double ronde, plié.  _ Easy. Perfect.

Lexa turned round to repeat the exercise on the other leg and immediately felt her stomach flip like she was seven rather than seventeen, because the huge plate-glass windows were alive with the swirl of thousands of snowflakes. When she was little, snow had been all but invisible against the white of an endless sky. She had fallen in love with it all over again when she’d come to the city and had actually been able to see it falling, each individual flake outlined against dark high-rises, each drift sketching out the shape of the wind. 

‘I knew you’d like it,’ said Anya approvingly, as though she’d arranged the snow to order, once class was over and they were back out on the crunching sidewalk with Lincoln. ‘Admit it. You’d rather be out here instead of stewing in some studio.’

‘There’s no acceptable answer to that question.’

‘Try me.’ 

Out of the corner of her eye, Lexa saw Lincoln hovering gleefully behind Anya with a handful of fresh snow from the top of a parked car. ‘You know I get mad when I have to admit you were right. But not as mad as you’re about to be.’

It turned out to be one of those truly  _ good  _ days. Anya snarked incessantly and affectionately at the pair of them, trying and failing to hide her satisfaction that they were both happy. Lincoln was as steadfastly warm as always, dark eyes watchful and responsive, hopeful that his partner was finally getting to where she needed to be. Lexa just sat, smiled, snarked back at Anya and drank it all in. She won the battle to take their hot chocolate outside to the empty tables in the square outside the cafe, where the strings of lights in the trees cast a blue-white glow on the cream and the snowflakes melted in the heat from the mugs. She rolled her eyes at the sheer seasonal absurdity of it all when the carol-singers showed up, demanded gingerbread when Anya went back inside to exploit her advanced age in pursuit of mulled wine, and managed to restrict herself to the things she could hear and smell and feel.

The cathedral seemed cavernously dark and silent after the light and noise of the streets. There was a cold, stone smell edged with incense, and nothing but the echoes of whispers to guess where the walls were or where the roof began. Lexa swallowed as she took a candle and followed the others into the shadows. It wasn’t that she was scared of the dark, but it had a way of letting her thoughts wander in unhelpful directions. She had been so nearly there, so nearly ready to step onto the stage with a smile on her face, and she couldn’t afford to remember all the doubts and regrets she’d managed to forget.

The singing started at the far end. The ballerina saw music in the flicker of her candle, the light being passed flame by flame down the rows, and heard a dance in the rising and falling of the voices as they got nearer. 

_ Lullay my liking, my dear son, my sweeting _

_ Lullay my dear heart _

_ My own dear darling _

It was the sound of solitude, each note hanging formless in the dark. Lexa felt it close in around her, filling her ears with another parent’s lullaby for another child, leaving her alone and lonely in the vast vaulted space. It was a reminder of the old, stifling kind of solitude that had always been worst at Christmas, the paralysis of being full to the brim with memories but never finding the words to pin them down.

The carol ended, and to her left, she heard Anya sigh out a long-held breath.

The candles got no brighter, but the light rushed back in. Lexa blinked, eyes lifted upwards as though she’d just woken up, staring into the dark like it was a bad dream and she was safe on its other side. She might not be anyone’s  _ dear heart  _ any more, but she was hardly alone - she had Anya on one side and Lincoln on the other, as uncompromisingly  _ there  _ as she could ever have wished for, and although it didn’t heal the wound it was just enough to patch it over. 

She was getting better, and that was okay. In the honesty of the darkness, the stillness of the singing, she could finally accept that it was as natural to heal as it was to hurt. 

_ My dear heart _

_ My own dear darling _

 

***

 

**December 12. Debut.**

 

The morning felt unreal. Lexa had spent a month and a half waiting for it to arrive, with dread mixed with impatience; she’d rehearsed it so many times in her mind that it felt like she was experiencing it in third person. She got through company class on autopilot, ate like she’d planned weeks before, and did her makeup as though the face in the mirror belonged to a stranger. She made it to the wings for her entrance before she caught one of the stage lights full in the face and realized that this was real, this was  _ happening _ , and she’d run out of time to understand it all.

‘Hey,’ said Lincoln quietly behind her, hands warm on her shoulders. ‘Breathe.’

The music started, every note familiar, inevitable and innate.  _ That will be me. Half a promise, half a certainty. _

It came to her, answering its call, that she’d never had to search for a reason to be happy on stage - the dancing itself was enough. The ballerina felt as complete, as much  _ herself _ , as she’d ever been. She rejoiced in the feeling of fully inhabiting her limbs, of being where she was meant to be, of  _ belonging _ . Every movement was a knot slowly untwisting, an exhalation of a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

_ It is part of your path. Your destiny. And that matters.  _

It was Christmas, and Lexa Woods was happy.

 

***

 

**Epilogue**

**December 24**

 

The dancers got a night off on Christmas Day. The performance on Christmas Eve had the special exuberance of relief, enthusiastic enough that two corps de ballet girls collided in the Waltz of the Snowflakes and the Sugarplum Fairy on duty drew blood from her prince’s nose by whacking him during a pirouette, but at last it was over and the theater emptied like the last day of school. Lexa was going home with Lincoln and was greeted with warm-hearted hugs from his parents and his younger brother, the designated Eastman child whose year it was to take the fifth seat in the car. 

The Secret Santa gifts had been piled up on the table in the stage door lobby. Lexa made an excuse as they were leaving, telling the Eastmans she’d catch them up, and hung back in a corner to watch Anya roll her eyes as she sifted through the packages. The older girl’s expression didn’t change as she found the one tied with the red satin ribbon and undid the wrapping, but she stopped dead when she saw what was inside.

For a long moment she just stared at it, then she looked up and saw Lexa waiting. ‘Was this you?’

‘Yes.’

Anya nodded and crossed the room slowly, brushed a fingertip over the framed photo of the two of them making the cake, took another look at the packaging. ‘And is this the ribbon from the cake? Your first cake?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lex.’ Lexa watched the emotions chase themselves across Anya’s face - amusement, exasperation, and finally tenderness. ‘Kind of defeats the object of secrecy, doesn’t it?’

‘It does.’ A gust of cold air blew in through the door. Lexa tucked her arm through Anya’s and led them both out into the starry, snowy Christmas night. ‘But I thought you’d probably suffered enough.’


End file.
